


The Courtship of Sir Galahad

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galahad doesn't know how to court women. Clearly a situation that must be remedied, and fast. The rest of the knights look to teach him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Courtship of Sir Galahad

“I don’t know how to court a woman.”  
  
With those simple words, Galahad had ensured that his life – already chaotic and mixed with madness – would not be peaceful. It was their leave. It was supposed to be their time off. The Knights had been split into many groups, and Galahad’s small legion was on leave while the other groups made campaigns across Britain, protecting the great Wall. Bors, Gawain, and Tristan had been left with Galahad and three other Knights. They had been drinking, the hours far into the morning, and Galahad had been ready to pass out, his cheek flat against the hard table. They had been commiserating loudly over Bors latest luck in getting Vanora pregnant again. It was already going to be her fourth, something the other Knights could not even fathom. Bors had the bravery of ten men just to put up with this strange process of childbirth.   
  
And then Gawain had cuffed him on the back, making Galahad sit up as straight as possible. Bors nudged Galahad in the side with his elbow to get his attention as Galahad swayed side-to-side, heavy-lidded and quite drunk. He was sure he heard someone asking him just how many women he’d bedded and how many were itching to start a life with him. At first, Galahad made thoughts to protest. He was only seventeen, and that wasn’t a time to think about marriage, not for Galahad.   
  
“Just the one,” he mumbled hazily, finding sense in a world of madness. “I’ve bedded only one.”  
  
Bors’ eyes went wide. “You’re not serious, boy?”  
  
Galahad held up one finger. “One.”  
  
“How in the name of all things honourable is that possible?” Bors kept raving, his voice louder and louder. “Here I was thinking you had every pretty lass in the village knowing the feel of your sheets.” Galahad mustered a smile, proud that his fellow Knights thought so well of him, or perhaps, they weren’t thinking well of him at all. Perhaps they were making fun of him. He swayed some more before letting loose the words that had gotten him into trouble.  
  
“I don’t know how to court a woman.”  
  
And then silence.   
  
Galahad blinked. He had been expecting some sort of loud vocal reaction, if only one of mockery. He rested his cheek against the cool surface of the wood again, closing his eyes with a drunken grin plastered on his face. The familiar feeling of drowsiness began to creep into him and he faintly heard voices in the distance as he gave in and passed out in the middle of the Knights, whose conversation had picked up now and was growing boisterous very quickly.   
  
He slept well.   
  
It was in waking that the misery started. He awoke, surrounded by the sound of birds chirping and found Tristan calmly watching him, not three feet away from the bench that Galahad had passed out on. Galahad sat up slowly, pain distantly yet distinctly making its presence known in his head. He rubbed his eyes, turning to find out where he was and discovered he was still sitting in the tavern, the fog creeping in over the walls of the village. He tried to remember what had happened the previous night, but nothing would come except that he and some of the other Knights had gone out for a drink, or possibly four.  
  
“What’s going on?” he muttered, cracking his neck and working out the kinks in his back. He blinked, and moved slowly, every stirring of his body feeling slow and heavy. He shook his head and focused on Tristan until he became one body instead of the double vision Galahad had been experiencing.  
  
“The rest of the Knights have made a decision,” Tristan reported, the shadows of cheer lurking in his words. Galahad frowned, already bracing himself for the worst.  
  
“In regards to what?”  
  
“We’re going to teach you how to court women,” Tristan relayed, clapping Galahad firmly on the back. Galahad frowned, panic settling in his bones as he finally recalled exactly what had been said the night before. Tristan stood up, adjusting his armour before heading off. Galahad took a moment to collect himself before he stumbled to his feet, clumsily chasing after Tristan.   
  
“What? You’re going to do what?” he asked, already feeling very panicked, his eyes wide. He stumbled slightly, his body not entirely awake. He faltered in his step, evoking a smirk from Tristan. “Why…what…you can’t… _why_?” he reiterated with deep-seated panic finding its way to the surface and coming through quite clearly with every single word.   
  
“Breathe, Galahad,” Tristan reassured him. “It was Bors’ idea.”  
  
Galahad swallowed the lump in his throat that could only be the terrifying physical presence of terror and he struggled to find an argument to this madness. “This can’t be something that Arthur would approve,” he finally found words and hoped they sounded convincing. “As soon as they get back, they’re going to put a stop to this…”  
  
“Arthur returned at sunrise,” Tristan calmly interrupted, the smirk growing by the second. “Dagonet took Kay, Gareth and some of the others out, but we’re to remain here. It seems I made a bit of a stir last time with the unnecessary killing. Arthur, of course, was quite interested in this project and asked that we include him. Lancelot, in particular, cannot wait for his turn.”   
  
“You all hate me,” Galahad muttered miserably, shaking his head and letting his posture slump. “Because I’m youngest, you all want to make my life a tragedy. It’s the only reasonable explanation.” He looked up to Tristan, pleading with everything he had within him. “You cannot be serious.”  
  
“Bors gets you first,” Tristan replied, walking away.   
  
Galahad let out a strangled cry that came out quite pathetically, and desperately, he wished for some sort of attack to happen on the Romans, possibly serious enough to inflict serious wounds on him that refrained him from interacting with other human beings. Somehow, he had a feeling that wouldn’t occur. He sank down onto one of the benches, and hit his forehead against the wood, letting out a long groan.   
  
***  
  
It was something Gawain never thought he would admit – and he still would not say a word aloud – but perhaps Bors was something of a genius. Usually, the intermittent times between battles were quite boring, dappled with the occasional amusement, but boredom prevailed for Gawain. This time, oh, this time was going to be quite interesting indeed. Gawain had known about Galahad’s lack of experience in the bedroom, but had never thought anything of it, really. It had been something he’d teased Galahad about, affectionately, of course. Gawain had never known anyone to fall victim to a foul mood quicker than Galahad, and mocking him mercilessly tended to send him spiraling into a land of melodramatic depression.   
  
Bors’ idea had been, quite frankly, a stroke of genius.   
  
Gawain bored all too easily, but this plan proved to provide entertainment, gave him the chance to embarrass Galahad, and have many good laughs before the whole thing was over. There was nothing on earth, nor in purgatory, or any afterlife like the sight of a flustered, bewildered, and impatient Galahad.   
  
Gawain had entered the stables to find Tristan sharpening his knife and Arthur cantering about with his horse, ready to head out on a ride. “Where’s Galahad gone to?” Gawain questioned, sitting down and grabbing the latest piece of fabric he had been working on restoring. A few stitches had torn loose and it was taking much longer to fix than he’d hoped.   
  
“Bors has him,” Tristan replied, not quite looking up.  
  
So it had started, Gawain reflected. He couldn’t fathom just what Bors had in mind to teach Galahad, and for the life of him, Gawain could not even put together the image of Tristan charming a girl with anything but his skills – though, his skills were many and impressive, so it wasn’t a far leap to assume Tristan had bedded many using his skills alone. Gawain was just biding time really. It would be  _his_  methods that would be most useful, he knew it.  
  
Useful towards what, he wasn’t sure. Galahad had an appreciation for the women of the village, but never in their talks had he singled out a single one that he intended to woo, or perhaps charm into his bed. It was always generic talk of perfectly shaped breasts, long legs, and a smile to knock the wind out of you. Gawain had agreed with Galahad’s judgments and they had gone on their merry way sipping ale and talking up this and that, never once actually making any moves on the girls of the town.  
  
And something the Knights did not know was that while Galahad had only taken one girl to bed, Gawain’s own personal number was not one to rival the conquests of Lancelot, or even Arthur. He had slept with exactly two girls in his life, and with the both of them, it had been a rich five times apiece over the course of their relationships – dull and pointless things really when you could be dead the next day, Gawain figured.   
  
Though, and Gawain  _did_  tell the other Knights about this, multiple times, he had quite a reputation when it came to the bedroom. None left dissatisfied.  
  
With a grin, Gawain set about with his needle, stitching together the cloth.   
  
His turn with Galahad was going to be the one that worked.  
  
***  
  
A strong hand clamped down on Galahad’s shoulder, preventing him from walking away. Galahad groaned audibly and loudly as he sat back down in the wooden chair, rolling his eyes as Bors shoved a bouquet of dead flowers into his hands. Bors sat, his legs spread-eagled, on a stool and he leaned forward as the flowers dropped. Galahad looked down at them, unimpressed.  
  
“Listen, now,” Bors started sternly, trying for the life of him to appear an educated man and a teacher of sorts. It was failing quite miserably. “Women. They like to be…what’s it called…romanticized.”  
  
“Romanced?” Galahad supplied.  
  
“You give ‘em flowers, and you say sweet words…even if you don’t mean them,” Bors grinned, as though he had just discovered an innovation in warfare. “Just tell her that she’s pretty, the prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on. And then praise every little thing about her. She’ll love it.”  
  
“What if it’s not true?” Galahad asked, looking down with sympathy at the poor flowers.   
  
“Say it anyway,” Bors shrugged. He grabbed an apple and bit into it, talking with his mouth full. “She’s more than likely to take you to bed if you’re vocal about her good side, complimenting her and the like. Women can’t get enough of that. I know it gets Vanora to stop abusing m’poor face with that hand of hers.”  
  
“What if she doesn’t believe me?” Galahad asked, worried. Bors plucked the flowers out of Galahad’s hands and began to tear petals off one of them, shrugging as he did. “I mean, they’re liable to see through me.”  
  
“That’s when you lay the flowers and sweets on her,” Bors leaned in, raising his eyebrows. “Finish it off with a nice big kiss. And she’s yours. You’ll be waking up in the morning, ready to sneak away to a very big battle that you absolutely must fight in and find honour on the battlefield. She’ll love it.”  
  
Galahad frowned, watching the poor flowers droop even further. He returned his gaze to Bors, who looked inordinately pleased with himself. Galahad winced and got up, clearing his throat and plastering a smile on his face.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure it will work,” he replied evenly. “I’ll put it to the test immediately.”  
  
He nearly ran out of the room.  
  
***  
  
While Galahad was meant to be sleeping, his door had opened, and Percival had thrown in a thick manuscript that landed dead centre on his chest. Galahad stirred awake and looked down at the papers on his chest, frowning and still sleepy, not quite able to understand what exactly was happening.   
  
“Poetry,” Percival grinned, leaning against the frame of the door. “Sophocles and Homer. Women  _love_  poetry.”  
  
Galahad stared at him in horror.  
  
“Go away!” he growled, his voice cracking.   
  
Percival left as quickly as he had arrived, that same idiotic grin on his face as he closed the door behind him. Galahad groaned, throwing the parchment down on the ground with some force as he turned over in bed, pressing his face into the pillow as he let out a loud scream of frustration.   
  
***  
  
There was no escape.  
  
Before he could even awake properly the next morning, Lancelot was bringing him food and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, walking him about the village, and imparting his best, tried-and-true wisdom. He groaned and let himself be guided. With Lancelot, it would be easier to just give in rather than be bothered for the next few days. He sighed as Lancelot got him into a quiet corner and took out one of his swords.  
  
Galahad raised an eyebrow, and gave a mock nervous laugh as he looked around the empty street. “Are you going to injure me and then get some poor women to tend to my wound?” he asked sarcastically, tilting his head and crossing his arms.  
  
Lancelot actually paused. ‘ _Bastard’_ , Galahad hissed mentally.   
  
“You see your problem,” Lancelot began in his most condescending voice, “is that you’ve obviously no talent at impressing the girls. They’re just waiting to hear grand tales of adventure, or amazing feats and of terrifying battles.” He grinned. “You, after all, are a Knight of the Round Table. What could be more honourable, what could be more impressive?”  
  
Galahad raised an eyebrow.  
  
“So…I should tell her about the men I’ve killed?” he asked evenly. He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she can’t wait to hear about the blood and the torture I’ve inflicted.”  
  
“Less bloodshed, more heroics. You know, tell her about all the lives you’ve saved, and all the times you were so close to  _certain_  death,” Lancelot went on intensely, lunging forward and snatching a fistful of air. “The times you snatched defeat from a bloodthirsty, evil enemy.”  
  
“And that makes women want to sleep with you?” Galahad commented dubiously, snorting slightly. Lancelot stopped, turning back to him and putting his sword away, grinning madly.   
  
“Only if you’re me, I suppose,” Lancelot conceded. “Cheer up, Galahad. We’ll find you a lass willing to bed you yet.”  
  
***  
  
Kay returned from his patrol long enough to gather new supplies and take Lancelot and four of the other Knights with him back out into the wilderness. It had been long enough to whisper quickly in Galahad’s ear about a small technique some people from the South were calling ‘massage’. Galahad had begged, pleaded, desperately asked if he could go out on the watch with them, but he was promptly denied and sent back to the pub, where Tristan was next in line to educate him.  
  
“Massage,” Kay tapped his nose as he rode away with the others.   
  
Galahad contemplated just how far he could run before being chased and caught.   
  
***  
  
Tristan, while quiet in his methods, wanted a part in the madness no less than any of the others. It was hours before sunrise that he had taken Galahad out of his quarters, handed him a sword, a bow, and a shield and led him out into the forest to the sound of Galahad’s copious protests. The sun wouldn’t rise for a good block of time, and it was cold enough to see your breath.  
  
“If you’re not out here to murder me, can we  _please_  go back?” Galahad pleaded, shivering. “It’s cold enough to freeze the wings off a bird!”  
  
“You’ll never get a girl if you complain so,” Tristan replied mildly, taking out his bow, an arrow and pointing to a tree. “You see that branch there, about four from the ground up?”  
  
Galahad squinted and nodded. “It couldn’t support the weight of a bird, it’s so weak and thin.”  
  
Tristan drew his bow and promptly put an arrow straight through the thin branch of the tree. Galahad stared at it, sure it would break at any minute. The arrow had gone halfway through the bark, but stopped so that it hung suspended in air. He wandered over to the tree and studied the arrow.  
  
“To get the girls,” Tristan explained coolly, setting up another arrow. “You must impress them not with words, but with your actions. You charm her, show her just how delicately you hold your sword. She’ll know you’ll treat her just as delicately. With careful and swift hands, you shoot the arrow and she’ll see just how talented your hands are.”  
  
Galahad stood back and watched as Tristan fired another arrow, hitting the dead centre of the tree. Galahad went back to his pile of equipment and frowned as Tristan fired five more arrows in slow succession, creating a ‘T’ in the tree.   
  
“Did you bring me out here in the early morn, in the  _cold_ , just so you could train me?” Galahad asked, cynicism dripping from every word. “Because if you did, I think I’d prefer it if you please killed me right now. Please?” he begged, holding out his hands. “Put me out of my misery.”  
  
Tristan laughed loudly, putting his things away. “Before Arthur gets his turn? Never.” He gave a bundle of arrows to Galahad, pointed to another tree, and nodded to it. “Practice,” he advised, stepping back and hovering over Galahad’s shoulder as he outfitted the bow.  
  
Galahad muttered as he took a first shot, “it’s not enough that I can kill a man from two hundred metres off, further than most Roman soldiers, but I have to perform tricks just to impress women.”  
  
“Soon, we’ll get you performing some skills with the sword,” Tristan replied. “Cutting pieces of fruit in half while still in the air, and tossing knives with deadly accuracy. Things to impress.”  
  
Suddenly, the poetry did not look so bad.  
  
***  
  
It had almost looked as though Galahad was going to get through breakfast unscathed, but before he finished his meal -- he was drowsy, having been in the forest two hours with Tristan before the sun had even risen -- he had been accosted by Gareth while fetching water to clean his plate.   
  
“I’ve just one word for you,” Gareth leaned in, raising an eyebrow and speaking in a hushed tone that made everything seemed secret. He held up one finger and gave a mischievous grin. “Alcohol.”   
  
“Alcohol?” Galahad repeated.  
  
“If you ply a lass with enough alcohol, you’ll have any one of your choosing,” Gareth went on with delight. “And we Knights are more than willing to pay for all the ale you want to use in charming a girl, however many it would take for you to bed a girl.”  
  
“Alcohol,” Galahad said once more, scoffing. “Gareth, for your sake, I really hope you don’t use that technique often.”  
  
“It works!” Gareth swore, even as Galahad walked away.   
  
***  
  
Arthur got to him just after lunch, while Galahad had been sitting outside, trying to take a quick rest. Immediately, he shot to his feet – a reaction he hadn’t been able to stop around Arthur – and stood as straight as he could. Arthur gave an amused smile and sat down on the crate. Galahad hesitantly did the same. Arthur, their leader and the man Galahad looked up to bar no one, was going to give him advice on his love life.  
  
It took everything that Galahad had, but he did not groan audibly.   
  
“I’ll be brief,” Arthur began, immediately sending relief rippling through Galahad. “It does seem that you could have whatever women you want, but that’s neither here nor there. As far as looks go, you are not quite so bad to look at, Galahad. My advice to you, then, is if you give the women enough of an interest, they will pursue you.”  
  
“Just…wander about?” Galahad asked hesitantly.  
  
“Be in the public eye, yes,” Arthur continued, aiming a sharp look at Galahad. “However, hear this. If you do anything to make a noise about town, disrupting the peace and breaking women’s hearts, you will quickly learn the way that a eunuch lives.”  
  
Galahad swallowed the lump in his throat and instinctively protected his crotch as he nodded swiftly. Arthur smiled, patting him once on the back before heading away. Galahad relaxed finally, his back crumpling from the once-perfect posture. As soon as he was sure Arthur was out of sight, he did a mental tabulation. Nearly all the Knights had offered their so-called advice or methods to him. Anyone who hadn’t was out on the patrol. In fact, the only one who had given him a reprieve had been Gawain.   
  
He wondered just how long that luck would last.   
  
***  
  
Dinner at night was sorely lacking of a particular presence, Gawain quickly noticed. The round table was alive with conversation and laughter, mugs filled with good wine pilfered from the Romans and plates piled with better meat. He quickly grabbed a second plate and loaded it with food, excusing himself quietly to Tristan before making his way down to Galahad’s quarters and pushing in without knocking.  
  
“Go away,” was the snippy response he immediately received. Gawain fought to suppress a smirk. Galahad was lying on the bed, one arm draped over his eyes. Gawain closed the door.  
  
“I brought food, shall I still leave?”  
  
Galahad nearly snapped into a sitting position, reaching out. “No! I’m starving,” he admitted, leaning forward and grabbing the plate from Gawain’s hands. He didn’t bother to take the utensils, but merely began to eat. He looked incredibly tired to Gawain, but the days had been long for Galahad lately. “Tristan had me out in the woods for hours before sunrise today,” Galahad explained tiredly, his mouth full. “I thought I knew torture,” he shook his head, washing down the food with the glass of wine in Gawain’s hands. “I’m just glad it’s over.”  
  
“Not over,” Gawain contradicted. “Tomorrow night. Dinner. It’s my turn.”  
  
Galahad froze, ceasing to eat anything and gave Gawain a harsh glare. He put the plate to the side and continued glaring quite fiercely. Gawain merely stood his ground, giving a mild shrug and weathering this newest wave of childishness from Galahad.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Gawain, be a friend and go away,” Galahad snapped. He lay back down, replacing his arm over his eyes. “I thought this was over, I thought we were through with this, and…” he paused in his speech, wincing slightly. Gawain paused, recognizing the expression on Galahad’s face as one of pain. He put down everything in his hands and lifted Galahad’s shirt to find a deep cut on his chest. That explained it. It was still messy, and it appeared that no one had tended to it.  
  
“And who gave you that beauty?” Gawain inquired, shifting around and searching for supplies to clean it. He grabbed a bowl of standing water, dipping a cloth in it and pushed Galahad’s shirt up again. Through it all, Galahad did not protest and barely moved. He looked half-asleep, to be fair. Gawain lightly began to clean up the wound, and it seemed to wake Galahad up. He stirred slightly and made quiet murmurs of protest for Gawain to leave it be. “No, stop it,” Gawain ordered, pushing him back down with his free hand, his focus on the cut.   
  
“That’s Tristan’s work,” Galahad replied finally, wincing as Gawain pressed firmly against the cut. “Oh, damn it…Gawain, that  _hurts_.”  
  
“Yes, well, it will hurt more if it’s infected,” Gawain rolled his eyes. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing a cloth and slowly wrapping it around Galahad’s chest, letting the shirt fall back over it when he was done. “Was that so terrible?”  
  
“It would be better if you said that you weren’t having your turn with me tomorrow,” Galahad replied hopefully, his eyes closed and his voice drowsy. Gawain had to pity him, but only slightly. He grabbed the plates and glasses and headed to the door.  
  
“Sorry, no chance of that,” he replied before leaving.   
  
He made it back to the round table where the rest of the Knights were enjoying Lancelot’s recollection of his advice to Galahad and how he was sure it would work. Then they all began to compare their track records so that when Galahad eventually did bed another lass, they could see whose advice had been most successful.   
  
“Just wait. It’s not quite over yet,” Gawain called out, the last words of his sentence swallowed as he gulped down a mouthful of wine. “My turn is tomorrow and I intend to win.” This was greeted by many mutterings and the general opinion of the room seemed to be that Gawain was right, judging from their words. Gawain grinned, feeling better than he did a minute ago. When it came to friendship, Galahad was his closest and best friend. And Gawain had the best tips.   
  
Besides, Gareth had quite the idea when it came to relaxing people’s minds with the use of alcohol.  
  
*  
  
Galahad actually did not have it in mind to attend Gawain’s ‘session’ as he felt it needed to be called. He was going to enjoy an early night of rest before it was his turn to go out with the other Knights on watch – away from this idiotic immaturity and far, far away from any woman he was thus expected to bed. He was going to lie there in bed, the sun setting just outside his window, and he was not going  _anywhere_.  
  
Tristan and Percival had shown up at his door, not knocking and not pausing once as they picked him up and began to drag him (quite literally) out of his quarters. Galahad found himself yelling and shouting for help. Yet, none came. He was pushed into a room, the door behind him closed and something that sounded quite a bit like a table, perhaps two chairs and other heavy objects were pushed against the door.  
  
Galahad pounded on the blocked door for a good minute before admitting defeat.   
  
He sighed and hung his head as he turned around, ready to endure another round of this. Blessedly, this was the last. He froze in his tracks when he finally turned and saw the arrangement, stunned simply by the sight. He blinked once, twice, and then forced himself to move forward, grasping onto the back of a chair. Gawain leaned forward over the table, lighting one of the candles, the only illumination in the room was the dim flickering flames of candles set around the room.  
  
“What is this?” Galahad asked, taken with awe. Gawain did not answer, merely pointed to the chair. Galahad sat in it, gazing over everything with a wondrous eye and feeling a strange sort of trepidation fill him. None of the other knights had gone to any of this trouble…well, save Tristan, but Tristan’s idea of going to trouble was dragging him out into a frostbitten morning and wounding him.   
  
“My method,” Gawain mumbled, still not looking up.   
  
Galahad found himself frozen, captivated watching Gawain go about these preparations. On the table in a small mug, there were  _live_  flowers, a sharp and bright burst of colour in contrast to the dead ones Bors had handed him. He reached out and cradled one of the petals, and it was soft to the touch. Finally, Gawain lit the last candle that sat on the table and sat down in the chair across the small table. Gawain gave him an expectant grin, but Galahad sat frozen still.  
  
He felt a strange and uncomfortable swell of emotions in him as he placed his hands flat on the table and surveyed everything. He swallowed a lump in his throat and blinked to get himself out of the strange disorientation.   
  
“What exactly is there to this method?” he asked hesitantly, watching as Gawain leaned closer slightly. Galahad’s heart began to pick up in speed and their faces were only inches away now, and Galahad could even feel Gawain’s breath on him. “It’s just…it’s a table,” he said weakly, patting the wood.   
  
“It’s flowers, and candles, and if I could cook, it would have been dinner,” Gawain replied in a hushed tone with a grin. Those same damn emotions started stirring in Galahad again as Gawain got up and fetched two glasses, holding one out to Galahad. He took it and sniffed. It was wine. “But for now, this will have to do.”  
  
Galahad took a hesitant sip, sitting back and relaxing. He began to smile slowly and very soon, he burst out in a warm wave of laughter. Gawain cocked a curious eyebrow now, seemingly confused. Galahad shook his head, leaning forward, still smiling in the auburn light of the candles.  
  
“I was just…” Galahad began to explain, but laughter swallowed his words. “I was expecting another method of torture,” he went on, grinning. “But this isn’t half bad. It’s not poetry, and you’ve not taken me to the woods in the freezing cold. In fact,” he continued, relaxing in his chair, sipping at the wine, “this is quite pleasant. So long as this doesn’t end with you dropping me out in the woods for the night.”  
  
“That all depends on how much you irritate me,” Gawain easily replied.   
  
Galahad laughed again, taken by relaxation. All the troubles of the past few days seemed quick to disappear now. He leaned back, working the kinks out of his neck as he finished up the glass of wine. He settled into his chair and looked from Gawain to the door, feeling tension draining out of him with every passing second.  
  
“How do they know when to remove all the blocks?” Galahad inquired. He brushed away the hair falling in his eyes – reminding himself to get someone to cut it – and turned back to find Gawain give a careless shrug. “So,” Galahad laughed again. “There’s a possibility we’re trapped? Arthur won’t appreciate that. We are, after all, supposed to show up tomorrow for the ride.”   
  
“In that case, let’s hope those things never come down,” Gawain replied, pouring more wine into Galahad’s glass, sitting in the chair closest to Galahad now. He reached across, an impish grin on his face and grasped at some of Galahad’s longest curls. “Now, when exactly are you going to rid yourself of these blinders?”  
  
Galahad swatted his hand away, sipping at his wine and kicking his feet up on the chair to his right, the one Gawain was not currently occupying. He let out a great groan and grabbed one of the flowers, slowly tugging off the petals one by one. This was quite nice, and if he actually thought about it, would be the perfect way to charm a girl.  
  
In the very back of his mind, he quietly recognized that he himself was being romanced.  
  
“You’re looking quite comfortable there,” Gawain commented. “I see my methods are working.”  
  
Galahad opened his mouth to ask what his intentions were, but there in the candlelight, he found himself caught in Gawain’s gaze, the light of the flames flickering over Gawain’s face – which held a soft smile and slightly concerned eyes – and then he was unable to properly respond, losing track of what he was going to say.  
  
“I…well,” he stammered at first, clearing his throat. “It’s been a long few days,” he responded finally, feeling with more and more certainty that those feelings stirring within him meant one thing and one thing only. Now, there wasn’t just a simple stirring, but a rather aggressive pounding of his heart matched with a burning throbbing in his groin.   
  
“And it seems I win when it comes to relaxing you,” Gawain replied, not moving his gaze away from Galahad. “There is that much.”  
  
They sat there quietly for a moment, the glass of wine in Galahad’s hands feeling strange and heavy, a foreign object that didn’t belong. Galahad leaned forward slightly, knowing what he wanted, his eyes flickering down to Gawain’s lips and wondering just what they might taste of. He even shifted, his feet moving from the chair to the floor and he put down his glass as he surged forward.  
  
But before he could do anything, the door burst open and Lancelot was peeking his head inside, letting out a low whistle. Galahad pressed his back firmly to the chair, afraid that maybe Lancelot might have seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. Galahad snuck a quick glance at Gawain and neither of them said a word.   
  
“You really did have a plan in mind,” Lancelot commented, heading inside and leaning over the table to smell the flowers. “These are even fresh picked.” He grabbed the flask of wine. “Here’s where that went,” he commented with triumph. He took a swig of it, straight from the flask and wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Arthur says we’re moving out sooner than before.” He grinned. “And I’m in charge. It’s just us three, Bors and Tristan this time around. The others need a rest.”  
  
He walked out, leaving Gawain and Galahad to their silence.   
  
“Thank you,” Galahad commented finally, his voice strained. “This was…it was…”  
  
“We’d best be going,” Gawain cut him off, getting up and leaving the room quickly.  
  
Galahad nodded, feeling quite lost. He leaned over and blew out the two candles on the table, sitting back in his chair for a moment, trying to put all the pieces into place as to what had just happened. And then he willed his stomach to stop flipping over and over, and he yelled at his brain to stop telling him that it could possibly be love that he was feeling. He finished off the last of the wine in his glass before getting up and heading to the stables to get ready to head out.  
  
***  
  
It had been the moment when Galahad had looked up, a smile breaking on his face in the dancing light of the candle. Gawain actually believed that in that very short moment, his heart had perhaps stopped for a millisecond before beating at twice its normal speed. Then Galahad had laughed and Gawain felt deeply sure that perhaps he was experiencing something akin to desire.   
  
That same moment, Gawain realized that he was in for a world of trouble.   
  
It could, might, possibly, potentially be that he was feeling something akin to love for Galahad. He knew the feeling, had even thought he would spend his life with the first woman he’d slept with, that love overwhelming him. He felt the same thing when he saw Galahad laugh in the candlelight the previous night.   
  
He dragged Tristan by the elbow off into a clearing when they stopped for water, making sure that no one was watching. Tristan didn’t fight him off, merely went along with him, raising one eyebrow. Gawain looked down, cleared his throat and needed about three minutes before he could think of a coherent sentence.   
  
“I think I…” he exhaled slowly, clasping his head in his hands. “I think I may be falling in love with Galahad, as mad as that sounds,” he groaned from behind his fingers.   
  
“Why would that sound mad?” Tristan replied dryly. “Apart from the fact that we are Knights, all men, and typically not prone to having relations with one another, physical or emotional.”  
  
Gawain scoffed. “How do you mean to explain Lancelot and Arthur?”  
  
“Lancelot and Arthur,” Tristan replied quietly and slowly, “do not know that we all have knowledge of their dalliances in the bedroom. They are quite the exception because they have a private relationship. You’ve already told me that you…well, love Galahad, which is nothing short of what we could have all seen.”  
  
“In love,” Gawain mumbled, correcting him. “This may just be a madness inspired by too many blows to the head, mind you. Time will tell.”  
  
“Why are you telling me then?” Tristan inquired with mild disinterest. “After all, you don’t even know for certain that this is the way you feel, and if you do feel it, you’re best to approach Galahad yourself and keep it private as Lancelot and Arthur do.”  
  
“I can’t,” Gawain admitted. “He might just…because, he doesn’t…he didn’t…”  
  
“You need our help,” Tristan said smugly, crossing his arms confidently. He nodded. “You should have just said,” he added with a shrug before walking away. He did not turn his back once to check if Gawain was following him, but then, the quick footfalls and shouts would have been a sign in and of themselves.  
  
“Tristan! No! You cannot…” he chased after him, passing him and standing in front. “Do not tell Galahad, you cannot tell him. This may just be the madness of a few days, just…don’t say a word to him.”  
  
Tristan crossed his heart. “I will not tell Galahad.”  
  
Gawain narrowed his eyes and watched him go suspiciously. After a moment, he followed him back to the camp and kept a strict eye on Tristan’s habits and movements, noting the conversation between him and Galahad when there was any. It seemed he was safe. Of course, as he woke up the next morning, it turned out that Tristan had kept true to his promise.  
  
He had told everyone, save Galahad.   
  
Lancelot had been sitting on the stump of a dead tree when Gawain had roused himself in the morning. Gawain groaned and turned around, looking away. He closed his eyes tightly, thinking perhaps that if he ignored Lancelot for long enough, he would go away, just like the creatures in his nightmares. He opened his eyes and turned, finding that Lancelot hadn’t moved. Gawain cursed to himself, sitting up and raising an eyebrow expectantly.  
  
“Well?” he asked. “Get it on with.”  
  
“Actions speak louder than words,” Lancelot started in right away, his voice a hushed whisper. “If you really want to know whether he wants it or not, just…begin with your actions. It’s what Arthur did with me.”  
  
“I thought we weren’t supposed to know about that?” Gawain replied mildly. “About the activities you and Arthur get up to.”  
  
“You all do, anyhow. Arthur is content to be blind to that, but I don’t care about indulging in secrets and hidden affairs,” Lancelot snorted. “Back to the point, now. You take Galahad and you take him to a private place and perhaps, pleasure him, see if that’s what he wants.”  
  
“And if he doesn’t? If he beats me, bruises me, runs his sword through me once or twice because he’s offended and frightened?” Gawain countered, getting up and packing away his blanket. “Prudence really is something to be spoken for in this case.”  
  
“Yes, those are all fair points,” Lancelot rolled his eyes. He waved it off casually. “But, I mean, if you start to kiss him, or rather simply touch him, suppose, and he allows it, then you’ll have all your answers!”  
  
“Lancelot,” Gawain started amicably, his hand on the hilt of his axe. “Have you any idea what it feels like to have an axe slowly scar you from your neck to your groin?”  
  
Lancelot frowned. “No.”  
  
“You’re well on your way to finding out,” Gawain threatened, walking away to take a piss.   
  
As he navigated his way through the trees, he felt eyes on his back, watching him go. He shook it off and found foliage to cover him as he relieved himself. He finished up, adjusting his breeches, but when he turned to head back, he only made it about six paces before he bumped into Bors. Gawain felt the fight go out of him as he exhaled and sighed.  
  
“All right, your turn,” he grumbled.   
  
“There are three things you never do,” Bors began, his voice low and threatening. “You don’t die. You don’t kill a Roman soldier. And you don’t fall in love with another Knight. Now, lessee…”  
  
Gawain looked up, counting on his hands. “I’m here talking to you, so I’m alive…”  
  
“But you did kill those Roman soldiers on our way East that one time,” Bors interjected, looking down on him disapprovingly. “Lucky child on that one, I can never say that enough. Does Arthur know?”  
  
“No,” Gawain replied sternly. “And he never will, so long as I’m alive. That was an accident, and we all know it. Besides, Tristan killed three to my two. Dagonet even had one on his head. We thought they were Saxons and that’s how the story goes. Arthur is not to ever know,” he snapped.  
  
Bors put up his hands. “Right, I hear you,” he muttered.   
  
“So why not make it two out of three?” Gawain asked, cheer seeping into his voice and a smile on his face, feeling as though he really had nothing to lose anymore. “After all, I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t with so much blood on my hands. So long as you aren’t holding a personal grudge against me.”  
  
“No,” Bors admitted after a moment. They stood there, neither one moving. “I’ve nothing to worry over, from word of mouth. I hear you couldn’t get into his pants if you tried,” he commented before walking away, leaving Gawain to suffer with an indignant expression painted on his face.   
  
“I’d like to see you do better!” Gawain yelled after him, regretting it instantly and pressing his lips together, vowing not to say anything else. He cursed himself with every step as he made it back to his horse and saddled up, ready to go for a ride and praying he found Woads, just so he could fight.   
  
He groaned and began to ride off, aiming to find a path for them to take.   
  
He got as far as the beaten path when Tristan stopped him, holding a lance in his hands and already atop his horse. Gawain’s horse gave a whinny in protest and backed off, trotting on its hind legs to be beside Tristan’s. Gawain gave a resigned sigh and waited expectantly for the latest ‘words of wisdom’. When none came, they began to ride off slowly and Gawain briefly wondered what had become of Galahad, and briefly – a very brief, very real second – wondered if perhaps Bors and Lancelot had taken matters into their own hands.   
  
“We’re going back today,” Tristan said briefly.   
  
“Yes,” Gawain agreed.  
  
Tristan looked over his shoulder. “I’ll forget what you told me. And the others will as well,” he promised. “It will be like none of that ever happened in the first place.” The sound of other hoofbeats brought Gawain’s attention back to the ride. He smiled after a terse moment and nodded. Tristan smiled. “Good. Now, will you stop being so morose? You’re depressing me.”  
  
“ _I’m_  depressing you?” Gawain scoffed. “I wouldn’t think that possible,” Gawain replied, rolling his eyes, cantering forward.   
  
“You do owe me many favours for this one thing,” Tristan called after him as Gawain rode away. Gawain gave his horse a good rap with his heel and increased the speed, feeling as though the sooner they returned, the sooner he would find haven from this madness.   
  
***  
  
It was in retrospect only that the wilderness held more sanity than the village. If only he had kept to there, then perhaps he might have convinced himself that really, it was nothing like love that he was feeling but rather a head sickness that had claimed him by some strange turn. He should have volunteered to go off by himself on a scouting mission, but instead, he stayed.   
  
He stayed and listened to how Galahad had been taking advice to heart and soon, the Knights would discover which of them he’d listened to. The rumours about the town were that Galahad was planning a grand romantic gesture and that finally --  _finally_ , Bors grunted over ale – their Galahad was going to have a second woman in his bed.   
  
And then, Gawain countered his thoughts with the sobering truth that it was best he hadn’t acted on any of those bloody emotions. He spat on the ground. ‘ _Emotions_ ’, he thought with derision. They were a quick way to get you into a hot pot of trouble and fast. Emotions were not for the likes of him, Gawain quickly decided, heading into the stables to take his horse out for a quick afternoon ride.   
  
He was saddling up the horse when he saw Tristan hovering in the doorway, sunset behind him painting the stables a brilliant orange. Tristan slowly headed inside, lazily chomping on an apple as he nodded towards the quarters.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Galahad said he needed to talk to you,” Tristan murmured, polishing his teeth with his tongue. “Something about needing you to check if he’s doing something right. It seemed pressing.”  
  
Gawain stopped what he was doing and stood in place, giving it a moment’s consideration. Finally, he threw the saddle back onto its holder and cursed himself under his breath for still considering helping Galahad after that pathetic show they had made of communication. “This is the last time,” he muttered as he stormed past Tristan, who was watching indifferently. He marched straight to Galahad’s quarters and pushed the door open, ready to give his word that whatever in the bloody hell it was, it was fine.   
  
It was the dim light of the room that stopped him in his tracks.   
  
He didn’t dare move, but only watched Galahad in his best clothes, lighting candles about the room, a fresh and full flask of wine sitting upon a small table. So this was it then, this was his allotted time before Galahad chose another woman. The strange tumbling of his stomach was telling him that perhaps he was not so invincible as he had hoped he could be towards the full-fledged attack of emotions.   
  
He cleared his throat finally, his eyes still lingering on Galahad. Galahad turned, gave his best and brightest smile before he snuffed out the flame on the flint he’d been using. He spread his arms out, and Gawain surveyed the room. Yes, there were even fresh-picked flowers on the table, lying haphazardly. He collected himself and felt his breath return to him as Galahad’s smile faded from its once burning bright status into a dull glimmer of its previous brilliance.   
  
“You’re a good student,” Gawain finally commented, mustering a sincere smile. “This is all…quite perfect, actually. She’ll be touched.”  
  
Galahad looked up from pouring some wine. “Hmm?”  
  
“This set-up. The woman, she’ll be impressed. I doubt you’ll have much of an issue convincing her to go to bed with you,” Gawain went on, fighting back the desperate desire to roll his eyes. Sometimes -- oh he did love Galahad, there was no doubt of that -- but there were times when Galahad was at his least intelligent, and it seemed impossible to not want to try and knock sense into his head. “After all, what was all the madness for if not that?”  
  
“Sit down and shut up,” Galahad ordered, nodding to the chair. “I didn’t give a month’s worth of favours to Tristan just so you could ramble on.”   
  
Galahad turned about and went rummaging through some sort of collective pile of odds and ends as Gawain sat down slowly, still slightly unsure as to what exactly he was meant to be there for. He tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for something to happen. Finally, Galahad turned and laid down a piece of fabric in front of Gawain. He frowned and picked it up.   
  
“This is the fabric I’d been repairing to make into a pair of trousers,” Gawain commented, holding them up and studying them. “Except…this is done.” He looked up to find Galahad sitting beside him, beaming enthusiastically. “Why have you done my stitching for me?”  
  
“Tristan suggested,” Galahad said, nudging a full glass of wine towards Gawain and grinning – even wider than he had before, something Gawain was sure wasn’t possible. “I really did a good job?” he asked hopefully.   
  
“I’d think maybe you took notes,” Gawain replied sincerely, a smile of his own slowly breaking forward on his face. He froze in place, narrowing his eyes. “Tell me, word for word, exactly what Tristan said to you.”  
  
Galahad rolled his eyes. “He said, and I quote, ‘He’ll ask, but tell him it’s none of his business.’ I did you a favour. Now, this is…” he fidgeted slightly while speaking, “this is a success then?”  
  
“I’d call it one. She will enjoy it,” Gawain agreed, his words met with an exasperated sigh. He turned to find a wounded expression on Galahad’s face, and for a moment, Gawain wondered just when he’d injured him so gravely. “What’s that face for?” Gawain grunted, tired of running in circles. “Will you please deem me privileged enough to tell me exactly what you wanted me here for? An opinion? My blessing? Torturing me to get even for all the others?”  
  
“Well, I was hoping to court you,” Galahad snapped back irritably, “but it seems this has worked itself into a parody of itself.”  
  
“Well, if you meant to court me, you should have told me that first and foremost!” Gawain angrily yelled back, pushing the chair back and pacing about the room, muttering to himself and cursing under his breath.   
  
He froze in place.   
  
“Galahad,” he hesitantly said and turned. “Court?”  
  
“Yes,” Galahad responded petulantly. He had proceeded to sit back in the chair, arms crossed with a childish immaturity all about his face. Gawain stifled his laughter and turned his thoughts back to the more pressing issue of the moment, most notably, the admission that this was some sort of romantic gesture. “I don’t want another lass in my bed who will be gone by morning when I think I might just love you.”  
  
Gawain pressed his lips together firmly, fighting back a smile. “Love?”  
  
Galahad shrugged, the petulant set to his body not disappearing. Gawain paused in his step, swaying back and forth and debating his choices in the matter. He could refuse this show of emotions and leave as though it had never happened, he could lie to Galahad’s face that his feelings were not reciprocated, or…  
  
“I understand,” he swiftly replied, taking the first step towards Galahad. “It was…” he ducked his head down and laughed, clearing his throat. “When I thought you might have found another lass, well…I’d been ready to walk away, leave you with my own lessons. My own plan for a grand romantic gesture backfired because I think I fell a little in love that night,” he admitted sheepishly, finally looking up, feeling all sorts the fool. Love made men a fool. That was the proffered morsel of knowledge a man must keep in mind, according to Arthur himself. “But I would have let you been happy with her.”  
  
“There is no her,” Galahad said simply, finally uncrossing those damned arms and standing. “Unless you delight in becoming a woman, but really, there’s only room for one of us to wear a skirt, and mine is quite manly, besides the fact that I’ve become used to it.”  
  
Gawain couldn’t stop the bark of laughter this time. He grinned and shook his head, reaching out and grasping Galahad by the upper arm, tugging him close and pressing his lips to Galahad’s neck as he hugged him tightly, clinging fiercely and not wanting to let him go. Galahad protested, pushing away.  
  
“Soon,” he promised. Galahad grinned widely, pressing a quick kiss to Gawain’s forehead before leading him out of his quarters by the hand, nudging Gawain forward into the dining hall. The doors opened and the rest of the Knights went silent as Galahad entered the room, grinning like a mad fool the whole time. He spread his arms out, welcoming the jeers and cheers of the assembled Knights and even ducking morsels of food being thrown his way.   
  
“Well?” Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Am I to be a rich man tonight?”  
  
“You all owe your money to Gawain,” Galahad reported, turning and giving Gawain a toothy grin. “It was his methods in the end that best helped my charms in the pursuit of love, or rather…temporary companionship,” he added with a rather frightening leer aimed in Gawain’s direction. Gawain hadn’t realized a look so impure could ever appear on Galahad’s face.  
  
Gawain laughed, catching Tristan’s eye in the corner and nodding to himself while Tristan mouthed, ‘you owe me twice,’ at him. Galahad turned while the other Knights were in the process of a new argument over just how much money, or ale, or favours they had settled upon in the end. He pushed Gawain out of the hall, one hand firmly on his back. Gawain went willfully, not turning back once to look to see if anyone was watching.   
  
“Arthur, you can’t say that you had the most success just because you never had to injure Galahad. That doesn’t mean you won!”  
  
“You shall never learn, Lancelot. I will always win, in every case, lest you enjoy going on patrol in the great Northern regions of this land.”  
  
Galahad closed the doors to the hall just as a great noise of cheers and laughter went up inside. He turned to Gawain, raising an eyebrow and leaning in. Gawain grinned, just like the mad fool he felt himself to be, as he could feel Galahad’s breath hot on his skin.   
  
“You’ll get a proper courting,” Galahad whispered as they went through the halls, light laughter exchanged in quick glances and a maniacal sort of exuberance making its way through Gawain’s body. “All the advice I received, I promise I’ll put to use. I’ll even read you poetry.”  
  
Gawain groaned, the grin still painted on his face “Galahad? Don’t.”  
  
His heart racing, he realized that perhaps, this love wouldn’t be half bad.  
  



End file.
